


My Fate Cries Out

by rabidchild67



Category: Grimm (TV), White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Community: casestory, Crossover, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal and Peter follow a case to The City of Roses, where they team up with Nick and Hank (with an assist from Monroe and Rosalee) to stop a series of murders. When their suspect turns out to be a lot more than they bargained for, and someone close to them becomes the latest victim, Neal and Nick combine forces to bring down a dangerous monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fate Cries Out

**Author's Note:**

> My CaseStory Big Bang entry.
> 
> Link to Story Master Post on LJ: [Here](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/124939.html)  
> Link to Art Master Post by Elrhiarhodan: [Here](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/280253.html)  
> Link to Fanmix by Nessataleweaver: [Here](http://nessataleweaver.livejournal.com/25706.html)

\-----

Peter stood behind Jones in the van, tensely monitoring the operation going down in the large warehouse across the street. 

This bust was the culmination of a long, complicated case that began as a simple report of suspected inheritance fraud eight months earlier that had developed into a city-wide conspiracy involving multiple suspicious deaths over the course of several years. It was the kind of case that was like an onion – every time it seemed they’d gotten to the bottom of something, another detail would send them off on another line of investigation. 

The case had picked up steam in the last eight weeks, with Peter at the head of what was now an inter-agency task force. When he thought about the “war room” he’d had to set up on the 20th floor, and about the network of LEOs at his command to try to take down what was now known to be a network of murderous thieves, it didn’t fill him with the pride he thought it would. No, it made him itch to have it done with, before one more innocent man or woman lost their life – and their family’s inheritance – to these people’s ruthless practices.

The setup was simple – and all the more insidious for its cookie-cutter-like, repeatable nature. Lonely, reasonably well-to-do, middle-aged man or woman meets charming, reasonably attractive somewhat younger person and they begin a relationship. Sometimes they were romantic, others were friendships. But in all cases, the victims were found comatose or dead of seemingly natural causes, and weeks or months later, their families would find that insurance policy beneficiaries or wills had been changed or altered. The perpetrators were smart enough not to take it all – it would have brought unwanted attention – and so their crimes went unnoticed and unreported for what had turned out to be nearly three years.

Some d-bag from Organized Crime had dubbed them the “Lonely Hearts Murders” – a moniker Peter despised, and Neal often teased him with it. At its head was a woman known to them only as “M,” who they had not been able to lay eyes or surveillance on in all the months since Peter had first caught the case. But a reasonably well-placed informant familiar with the organization had assured them that the woman would be in this place for an important meeting with her lieutenants, and the sting had been hastily set up.

“All units in position, Peter,” Jones reported.

Peter took a deep breath, waited a beat and then let his hand rest on Jones’ shoulder. “Take ‘em down,” he ordered.

“You hear that? We are go. Unit A, take the front door. Unit B, hold your position for my go-ahead.”

_Federal agents!_

_Hands where we can see them!_

_No funny stuff. I said, no funny stuff!_

Peter tensed as he heard a few rounds of gunfire exchanged, and someone reported an “unfriendly” had been shot, but it seemed that the initial resistance was put down quickly. Jones dispatched Unit B a minute later to cover the rear entrance, and Peter imagined the men and women under his command storming through the barriers, breaking down doors to bring their perpetrators to justice.

 _Northeast quadrant secure!_ came the voice of one of Ruiz’s OC agents.

 _Southwest quadrant secure,_ came another – Peter was proud to realize it was his former probie Blake.

He waited expectantly for two more reports; if he were a nail-biter, he’d have drawn blood by now.

 _Southeast quadrant – clear!_

Peter relaxed marginally, but not completely. No report from the Northwest – where Diana and Neal were assigned.

 _Neal! Christ!_ Peter thought. This was his former CI’s first bust since taking a full-time position with the Bureau after his sentence had been commuted. Peter was both happy and proud that he’d chosen to stay with the White Collar unit, to continue the partnership they’d formed nearly three years before, though today his feelings were mixed. While Neal's proficiency with firearms was now the stuff of legend around the New York field office, Peter still worried about his willingness to actually use one if needed. 

_FBI! Freeze!_ It was Diana’s voice, clear and commanding. There was a sudden crash and a groan as if someone was hurt. _Crap, I’m down, I’m down,_ came Diana’s voice, slightly breathy, pained, and Peter’s hand was bruising on Jones’ shoulder as he dispatched backup. 

“Diana, report!” Jones ordered.

 _It was “M”, I’m sure of it,_ was her gruff reply. She was out of breath, in distress. _Fucking hell, what did she hit me with? Caffrey, she’s headed your way._

Peter’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Neal, report,” Jones said calmly.

There was no answer.

“Caffrey!” Jones said, his voice loud, insistent.

The sound of running feet came over the comm link then, from far away, getting louder, nearer. _Freeze! FBI!_ Neal said – ordered – his voice sure, calm, commanding. Peter felt a surge of pride mixed with trepidation.

But there was a strange sound, suddenly, like a roar– but not. Like a hiss – but not. 

_Shit, shit, shit!_ Neal said. A gun fired.

 _Shots fired! Shots fired!_ Diana was saying, her voice tense. _Neal?!_

“Caffrey report!” Jones fairly shouted.

 _Ohmygod, ohmygod,_ Peter could hear the terror in Neal’s voice. 

_Neal? Neal, you OK?_ Diana said – she’d clearly found him.

 _Don’t look, don’t look,_ Neal was saying, chanting, his voice low, almost a moan. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say Neal was petrified.

 _Neal!_

_Don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook!_

xXxXxXxXx

**Six months later**

Detective Nick Burkhardt headed down the corridor towards the Intensive Care Unit of Portland Presbyterian Hospital, to meet with the doctor for another victim in the case he had been working. This was not the oddest investigation Nick had been involved in of late; since his Aunt Marie’s death eight months ago, and his subsequent inheritance of her “gift” of seeing the creatures called Wesen among ordinary citizens, he’d had his share of doozies. Perhaps this case resonated _because_ it didn’t seem to have any relation to that other world of which he was quickly, if reluctantly, becoming a part.

The latest victim – a college professor in his mid-50’s named Mark Henderson – had been found by his daughter the day before in what was a form of paralysis, but with no discernible cause. Such a case would normally not have garnered the attention of Portland PD’s Homicide Division, but this was the third victim in as many months, and if the usual prognosis for the victim was to be seen, he’d be dead within the next 72 hours.

“Doctor Patel,” Nick greeted the neurologist who’d worked all three cases to date as he arrived. 

“Detective,” she said, acknowledging his arrival.

Nick looked past her at Henderson and his daughter, who had been sitting with her father since he’d arrived in the ER the night before. “Any change?”

Dr. Patel sighed. “None. I’ve run every test I know and can find no cause for his condition. Every indication is that he is a normal, healthy man.”

“What’s the name of it again?”

“Well, I’m not sure if it’s the right one, but we call it ‘locked-in syndrome.’ It’s a form of total paralysis. He’s in there, he’s completely awake and aware, but he can’t move a muscle except for his eyes.”

“Is it curable?”

Patel shook her head. “I’m afraid not. We can treat his symptoms, and we can make him comfortable, but this will eventually kill him.”

“Doctor, this is the third case in as many months – is there some underlying cause we should be looking for? Some virus, or –“

“No, Detective. There is always a physical cause – an injury, stroke, even certain venomous snakes can cause locked-in syndrome. But there’s no indication of any kind of an injury.”

“And the snake?”

“Well, unless he’s been traveling in the Indian subcontinent, which his daughter assures me he has not, then we are out of luck.” 

Nick shook his head regretfully, then had to excuse himself as his mobile phone rang. “Yes, Captain?” he answered.

“Nick, there’s been a wrinkle in our Sleeping Beauty murders.”

Nick frowned – he’d like to kill Wu for coining that phrase when the second victim turned up. “What now?”

“Got a call from the first victim’s family lawyer – it seems a couple of his insurance policies had their beneficiaries changed, to an acquaintance that has nothing to do with the family. They can’t figure out why. I want you to run it down, see if anything turns up.”

\----

Nick and Hank pulled up in front of Jane Timoney’s Tarot card reader’s shop downtown, and Nick groaned loudly. “Why is it always the fortune tellers?” he asked.

“Can you think of a line of work that employs more charlatans and con artists?” Hank said with a smirk. Hank had driven – as the senior person in their partnership, he liked to claim it was his right, and Nick was happy to go along with his friend. Hank unfolded his long legs from the sports car he had somehow gotten assigned to him out of the auto pool, and closed the door, leading the way to the tiny shop that was nestled between a Vitamin Shoppe and a women’s book store.

They entered the tiny shop and Nick sneezed three times from the heavy incense that was burning inside. The “mystic” was with a client, or so a nearly indecipherable bit of calligraphy on a card told them, and they cooled their heels in the waiting room. Hank thumbed through a copy of “Seers Today” with a look of befuddlement on his face.

Fifteen minutes later, a tall man emerged from the back and brushed past them on his way out. He was soon followed by a pleasant-looking woman in her 40’s. She was short, dressed in a loose-fitting skirt and blouse, a long, hand-crocheted vest over the whole outfit nearly touching the floor. A colorful scarf helped to control the long dreads that hung down her back, and she was actually barefoot, with an anklet of tiny bells decorating her right foot. She was about what Nick would have expected for Portland, but her behavior was not.

“Good morning,” she said in a highly cultured British accent. “I’m afraid I don’t accommodate walk-ins on Tuesdays. Can I make you an appointment?”

Nick stepped up to the counter and pulled out his shield. “That won’t be necessary. We’re with Portland PD, investigating a homicide. Are you Miss Timoney?”

“Mrs.,” she corrected him.

“Mrs. – Timoney,” Nick said. “Can you tell us about your relationship with an Adam Jablonski?”

A flash of grief crossed the woman’s face, which she attempted unsuccessfully to mask. “H-homicide? I thought he fell ill…?”

“There are suspicious circumstances. We can’t really elaborate. Please, your relationship?”

“We were friends. I was saddened to hear of his passing.”

“Was he a client of yours?” Hank asked.

“Oh, not at all. We met at a benefit for the Public Library, actually – we both wound up serving on the same fundraising committee.”

“So there was no romantic involvement?”

“We saw each other socially, but there was no romance. I recently lost my husband.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hank mumbled. “Did you know that Mr. Jablonski had made you the beneficiary on one of his insurance policies?”

Nick watched her closely to see if she’d reveal a tell – or, as had been a constantly evolving part of his life, any indication that she was a Wesen. Nick was a Grimm, the latest in a long line descended from the famous brothers, whose mission was not actually to catalog folk tales and legends, but to record incidents of Wesen violence against humans. Any kind of emotional upset tended to force Wesen to reveal their true natures to Nick – an ability he’d inherited from his famous ancestors. 

But there was none with Mrs. Timoney, who continued to look at Hank as steadily as she had Nick, with a type of sad guardedness in her eyes. “I did not know that. No one was more shocked than I. I’m afraid I have no idea why he would have done that – I told the family lawyer that yesterday.”

Hank nodded, seemingly satisfied. He looked up at Nick. “Mr. Jablonski fell ill on the 27th of February - do you recall your whereabouts on that date?”

Mrs. Timoney turned her gaze to Nick, and looked at him thoughtfully. “I’ve no idea, I’d have to check my diary.”

“Could you? I hate to ask, but we must be thorough.”

“Of course.” She blinked several times, but walked over to the desk and pulled a calendar out of a drawer. She paged through it, and then nodded, as if confirming something. “I was out of town, at a family reunion in Beaverton. I didn’t return home until Sunday evening.”

“You stayed at a hotel?”

“I did – the Wayfarer Inn.”

Nick made a note of it and nodded. “Had you seen Mr. Jablonski at all in the days leading up to his, er, illness?”

“I ran into him at a coffee shop that Friday morning. We chatted for a while, he walked me to my shop, that was it. We talked about the library, about our chances of getting the mayor to attend our next fundraiser, that kind of thing. He seemed perfectly normal to me.”

“He wasn’t scared or agitated in any way?”

“Not to my eye, and that’s my stock in trade. In this line of work, you develop an uncanny sense of people, you know? He seemed perfectly normal and calm to me.”

Nick took a note and nodded, thanked her for her time and left with Hank. 

“Another dead end,” his partner said, unlocking their car.

Nick shook his head. “This case is going nowhere,” he said, frustrated. He didn’t look forward to returning to the precinct.

\----

Nick was running down Jane’s alibi the next morning when his boss approached him and Hank. A tall man with a regal bearing, Captain Sean Renard loomed over Nick until he’d gotten off the phone with the manager of the Wayfarer Inn in Beaverton. Jane’s alibi was confirmed – she had checked in the weekend of the 27th, and stayed until that Monday morning. Nick didn’t like the look on his captain’s face.

“Something up?”

“We’re about to get a visit from the FBI,” Renard informed him gravely.

“What?” Nick felt the heat in his face immediately and rose to his feet. Having the Feds involved in any case was not just a jurisdictional pissing match – although that didn’t make it any more enjoyable. Dealing with Federal cases just led to a shit ton more work and correspondingly less glory and reward for their troubles. 

“For what case?” Hank asked, looking as annoyed as Nick felt. 

“Sleeping Beauty.”

“No way, boss. On what grounds? It’s strictly local,” Nick said. 

“We don’t even know if a crime’s been committed yet,” Hank pointed out.

“All of these are points I made to the Chief of Detectives, but he would not be moved. Seems these cases carry the hallmark of a rash of similar murders in New York. Now that it crosses state lines, it makes it a Federal case. The Chief has asked that we provide the FBI with our utmost support and cooperation, in a manner befitting the great Portland Police Department.”

Nick couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Which means what? I’m not getting them coffee.”

“That’s what we’ve got Wu for,” Hank said with a smirk.

Nick shoulders hunched – already he knew this would be a long day. “When can we expect our guests?”

Renard consulted a notepad he held. “Special Agent Peter Burke arrives on the 3:45 from Newark; he ought to be here for a debriefing at 5:00.”

“He would arrive at the end of shift,” Hank pointed out. 

“Yeah, well, mind you make him feel welcome – I do not need the Chief crawling up my ass again.”

“Sure thing, Cap.” Renard returned to his office and Hank sat down heavily in his chair, tossing his pen across his desk at his computer monitor. “Well, our productivity on this case just hit the single digits.”

Nick sighed ruefully and sat down in his own chair. “You’re telling me. Well, I guess we can just keep working on the half dozen other cases on our sheet, eh?”

xXxXxXxXx

Neal leaned impatiently across Peter, watching their descent into Portland. Peter gave him a bemused look, but quickly turned it into a scowl to keep up appearances. “Do you mind?”

“What?” Neal glanced at him, but leaned over even further.

Peter raised his left arm and pushed Neal back onto his own side of the seat. “Personal boundaries. Respect them.”

Neal looked aggrieved. “Well, you hogged the window seat, what am I supposed to do? I’ve never seen it from up here.”

“You’re about to see a whole lot of it. Somehow, I’m not picturing it as your kind of town. There are lots of trees. And rain. And coffee shops.”

“I like coffee.” Neal bounced a little in his seat, undoubtedly excited, and adjusted his impeccably-tied tie. His blue eyes shone with excitement, but Peter wondered if his partner wasn’t hiding something. It wasn’t often that their work took them out of New York, let alone all the way across the country, and though Peter thought Neal would enjoy it, he was still worried. Neal blamed himself for their botched attempt to bring the leader of the Lonely Hearts ring to justice. Though the bust had yielded nearly a dozen arrests and the end of their operation in New York – and unfortunately one casualty among the accused – the loss of the ringleader was a blow that Neal hadn’t really recovered from. He’d thrown himself into trying to track her down – it was like his own personal obsession, and the lead in Portland was one he’d put together himself. Peter could understand being obsessed with a case – hadn’t he been similarly driven when he’d pursued Neal all those years ago? But that didn’t mean he couldn’t worry for his partner.

“I’d say you’ve had enough coffee,” Peter said with a smile, watching him bounce, and began to pack up the case files that had been strewn across both of their tray tables as the flight attendant called for them to prepare for landing.

\----

“Why do I never get to drive?” Neal asked as he tossed his fedora onto the back seat of the rental Taurus and Peter closed the trunk with a satisfying slam.

“Because I’m the boss?”

Neal settled himself into the passenger seat. “Well, that hardly tracks.”

Peter folded his tall frame into the driver’s seat and adjusted it back. “Because I’m bigger’n you?” He smiled as he said it brown eyes flashing, making Neal smile.

“Fine. This thing have the optional navigation system with SYNC Services, T-M?”

“Don’t be a smart ass. And yes – I sprang for the upgrade.”

Neal fiddled with the radio as Peter instructed the car where to take them. “Huh,” Neal muttered as he saw the route the navigation system laid out for them. “You should probably take the I-5 – it’s longer, but at this time of day, there will be less traffic.”

“Are you ‘Shadow Traffic’ now too?”

Neal merely shrugged, but then the navigation screen in the car’s dashboard lit up with warnings for traffic delays on their route and Peter gave him an odd look.

The drive to meet with Portland PD progressed without a hitch. They didn’t speak of the case, or anything really, even though it had been the only thing they’d discussed on the plane. Neal was content to stare out the windows at the passing scenery and buildings, and so Peter found the local NPR station and settled in to catch up on national news. 

When they arrived, Peter asked the desk sergeant for a Captain Renard, who presently came down to greet them with the perfunctory courtesy Peter had been expecting. Local law enforcement usually resented Federal agents taking a hand in their investigations, and a part of him didn’t blame them. But he was not the kind of Agent that took undue credit or threw his weight around, and he hoped he’d be able to demonstrate that to their hosts in good time. 

They were shown to a conference room, which had a break room adjacent where they could help themselves to some coffee. “I’ll just go and get my two lead detectives on the case, and we can begin the debriefing,” Renard said and left the room.

Peter took a seat as Neal busied himself with setting up the PowerPoint presentation he’d insisted on making, “Because visuals are important, Peter, _God!_ ” and Peter reviewed his case notes.

“Here we are,” Renard said as he re-entered the room. In his wake came a tall, African American detective who took in the two Feds with detached disinterest – Peter noticed he didn’t seem to be judging them yet, and he liked him the more for it. Behind him was a shorter man, dark haired, with large, intelligent grey eyes that Peter could already tell never missed a single detail.

“I’d like to introduce Detectives Hank Griffin,” Renard indicated the first man, “and Nick Burkhardt.”

Peter stood as Neal straightened up from hooking his laptop up to the room’s projection system. Peter held out his hand to Hank. “Special Agent Peter Burke. This is my partner –“

“Neal Caffrey,” Nick said as he caught sight of Neal. Peter didn’t miss the recognition – or the shock – as the two men looked at each other.

“Nick – hi,” Neal said, and for perhaps the first time since he’d known him, Peter found himself looking at a completely gobsmacked Neal Caffrey.

“You two know each other?” Hank said, raising an eyebrow and looking between the two.

“You could say that,” Nick said. “Neal's my cousin.”

xXxXxXxXx

**Portland, 1994**

Nick heard Aunt Marie's car pull into the driveway and slipped off of his bed, the copy of the latest X-Men comic forgotten on the coverlet, Wolverine’s face snarling in close-up. He peeked through the curtains of his bedroom window and tried to stay out of sight as Marie and his cousin – correction: second-cousin, whatever that meant – got out of the car. Marie walked to the front of the car and held an arm out to the newcomer, who reluctantly moved towards her. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and hugged him tightly, briefly, then escorted him into the house.

Nick crept out into the hall and crouched down at the top of the steps as they came through the front door. 

“Would you like a snack?” Marie was saying. Neal shrugged. “Have a seat there, I’ll bring you something – it must have been a long flight.”

Neal took a seat on the edge of the couch, and Nick leaned forward a bit so he could try to see his face. As he did, the floorboards creaked and Neal looked up at him. His face was pale, grave, his dark hair long and hanging over his collar, blue eyes wary. Nick was struck at how much of a family resemblance he was looking at – Neal had the complexion and blue eyes of Nick’s own mother. Their eyes locked, and they shared a silent communion – they were both orphans now, both of them had suffered more loss than most of their peers.

Nick pulled back as Marie arrived with a glass of milk and a bag of Oreos for Neal – she had a nurturing streak to be sure, but she was no Martha Stewart. She set them down on the end table for Neal and squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. When she straightened, she said, “You going to just lurk up there, Nicholas, or are you going to come down to meet your cousin?”

Nick never knew how she did it, but Marie seemed to have eyes in the back of her head. He unfolded himself and went downstairs. 

“I’m Nick,” he said from the living room doorway.

“Neal.” 

“Sorry about your dad,” Nick said, working the toe of his sneaker into the pile of the carpet. 

“Thanks.”

“My folks died two years ago.” Nick knew exactly how Neal was feeling.

“Really?”

“Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t need to say anything more – they had an understanding.

The next morning was Saturday, and when Nick went downstairs, he found Neal making pancakes for them all. He grabbed some milk and watched, bemused, as Neal moved around the kitchen, clearly knowing what he was doing. When Marie came down, she said, “Oh, Neal, honey, you didn’t have to. But I’m glad you did.”

\----

Neal, being easily adaptable, fit into Marie and Nick’s lives as easily as if he’d always been there, and Nick idolized him. He taught Nick card tricks and sleight of hand, made sure he always ate a good breakfast, and was the one who encouraged him to pursue his artistic talents. Neal was a tremendous artist and painter, and Nick learned a lot. 

Nick was beginning to get used to being part of a family again, and it made him happy.

But within two months of Neal's arrival, Nick noticed that something was wrong. One afternoon, Nick was surprised to see Marie come home early from work, a sullen Neal in tow. Nick was in his room doing his homework, and had been yelled at often enough for eavesdropping that he wouldn’t succumb to the temptation to go and see what was going on, but voices floated up the stairs to his ears, and he wasn’t sure what they meant.

 _“…control it,”_ Marie was saying.

_“… don’t want it!”_

_“…not a choice, Neal!”_

Then Neal was walking purposefully towards the front door, and Nick heard him say loudly, “I’m not like my dad and I never will be!” before slamming the door behind him.

Nick ran to the top of the stairs, alarmed. “Aunt Marie! What’s going on!”

“Just the family business, darling. Go and finish your homework.” Her voice was tight, bitter, but Nick wasn’t sure if she was angrier with Neal or herself. He could see the tears glistening in her eyes, though. He didn’t know what she was talking about and was afraid to ask.

Neal didn’t come home for dinner, and he wasn’t home the next morning, either. Nick could feel the tension and worry coming off of Marie like a living, breathing thing, but she didn’t talk to him about it. She made him go to school, and picked him up that afternoon, too, and when they got home, it was to find Neal in the kitchen, making them all spaghetti and meatballs, Nick’s favorite. 

When she saw him, Marie strode up to Neal and wrapped him in a fierce hug, whispering into his ear things that Nick could not hear. When they parted, Neal seemed to be resigned to something, his head hanging, but he nodded to Marie as she spoke in a low voice to him, her hand on his arm. They parted, and Nick didn’t miss the tears in both their eyes.

\----

Neal stayed with them another ten months before he ran away. During that time, he and Marie always arrived home at the same time – he’d been playing basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring, and Marie would pick him up from practice every day. But for some reason, Nick was never invited to his games, and Marie never went either. 

One day, Nick came home to find them both loading some strange cases and boxes into the trunk of Marie’s car. “What’s going on?”

Marie looked surprised to see him, but quickly covered. “Just donating some old junk for the white elephant sale at the church tonight,” she said, not really looking at him. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna… help carry it,” Neal said nervously and made a beeline for the passenger seat.

“Can I come help?” Nick asked.

“No, honey – it won’t take long, and I know you have that math test tomorrow to study for. There’s leftover fried chicken for your dinner, and Mrs. Addison will be over to sit with you later – we’ll be home late.” She walked up to him and hugged him tightly, kissed him on top of his head as he squirmed away. “I love you,” she said.

“Love you, too,” he said and watched her get in the car and back out of the driveway. They were around the corner before he remembered that they didn’t belong to any church.

Later that night, Nick woke sensing that something was not right – someone was in his room. He propped himself up on his elbows and whispered. “N-Neal? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it is. Sorry for wakin’ ya, Nicky,” Neal said. He was sitting in Nick’s desk chair. “You should go back to sleep.”

Nick sank back on his pillow. “OK.”

Nick thought it was strange for Neal to be sitting in his room, watching him sleep, but somehow it made him feel safe, and he felt like it was something Neal needed too.

The next morning, Nick woke to find a drawing of himself sitting on his desk. In it, he was sleeping peacefully, and he figured Neal had done it, maybe the night before by the light of the full moon. He ran his fingers over the pencil strokes, wondering if he’d ever be as good as his cousin. When he went down to breakfast, he found Marie sitting at the kitchen table with a note in her hands, shaking.

“What’s that?” Nick asked, a feeling of foreboding settling in his stomach, making him want to puke.

“He’s gone.”

Nick said nothing, merely ran up to Neal's room and saw the truth of her words. Neal's bed was still made – he’d never slept in it. The small duffel he’d had when he arrived was also gone, as were most of his clothes, and the pack of playing cards he’d used to teach Nick tricks. Piled on top of his desk were his art supplies with a Post-It note on which he’d written, _You’ve got a real talent – keep practicing – Neal_

xXxXxXxXx

“Cousin?” Peter said, avidly looking from Neal to Nick and back again.

“Cousin?” Hank echoed.

“Cousin,” Neal confirmed, addressing Peter, but keeping his eyes on Nick.

“Well, now, isn’t that nice?” Renard said unenthusiastically. “I’ll leave you to your reunion, then.” With that, he left the room.

“How long’s it been, Cuz?” Nick said, his voice clipped. 

“Seventeen years.”

“Seventeen years.” Nick pressed his lips together in a tight line, and breathed through his nose, obvious to anyone who saw him that he was angry. “Wow, it seems like only yesterday that you left Portland.”

“Can we talk about this later, Nicky? We’ve got a case to present.” 

Nick flinched at the childhood nickname – and so did Neal for having let it slip. Nick pulled a chair out so forcefully that its arms rattled against the underside of the table. He sat down, opened up his notebook and began to click the plunger on his pen incessantly. “Present,” he ordered.

Peter and Hank took their seats reluctantly, each man not knowing what to make of the tension between their partners. Neal fired up his presentation and reviewed the details of their case – the initial crime that brought it to their attention, followed by the long investigation, the task force, the eventual bust.

“The bust went down six months ago, resulting in the arrests of six of the Lonely Hearts organization’s known associates, and the death of another. However, the ring’s leader, known only as ‘M,’ escaped.”

“How?” Hank asked, completely riveted by the details of the case and taking careful notes.

“She… got past…” Neal stammered.

“She exploited a weakness in our perimeter and eluded capture,” Peter finished for him.

“What makes you think this is the same woman here?” Nick challenged.

“Your cases, while different on the face of it, bear striking similarities,” Neal answered. “We think that M has set up shop here in Portland, and that your cases are just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What do you mean _we_ think?” Nick said. “This is all _your_ theory, Neal, right?”

“It is.”

“Since when does the FBI take direction on cases from convicted felons?” Nick challenged.

Neal's face blanched at the rebuke and Peter stood up. “Neal's a valued member of my team. His analysis and conclusions are solid.”

“But he’s an ex-con?” Hank asked, eyebrows raised. He looked at Neal with hooded eyes, suspicious.

“I am,” Neal replied, since there was no denying it.

“These people were responsible for the deaths of nearly two dozen people over the course of four years back in New York, and it looks like it’s starting all over again here,” Peter pointed out. “Do you want to let something as trivial as Neal's status get in the way of bringing this woman to justice?”

“Well, you apparently don’t have a problem with it,” Nick pointed out sarcastically. 

“Maybe I’d better go and get another coffee,” Neal said, and left the room.

“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two when you were kids,” Peter said to Nick, filling the silence left by Neal's departure, “but Neal has worked hard for me, and has helped close cases – important cases, and it’s earned him a spot on my team. Maybe you’re in need of some sort of proof, Detective Burkhardt, but I’m not.”

“Clearly,” Nick replied, getting to his feet as well. “But he cut and run on me when I was thirteen years old, so you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t trust him immediately.”

Peter paused; this information about Neal was news to him – Neal had always been very guarded about his life before the age of 18. But any other attempt to defend Neal became secondary as Renard entered the room with a slip of paper in his hand. “We’ve got another possible Sleeping Beauty victim,” he said, handing the paper with the address on it to Nick. 

Peter’s shoulders tensed and he ran his hand across his chin. “Sleeping Beauty?” he inquired of Hank.

“You’ll see.”

\----

The victim, Tina Corbett, was a woman in her mid-30s, a librarian at the main branch of the city’s public library. She was lying alone in a bed in the ICU, not far from their previous victim, Mark Henderson. Nick found Dr. Patel to question her about the woman’s condition. “I’m afraid she’s just like the others,” she informed him.

“How does this keep happening?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know, Detective. Look, there are maybe two dozen cases of locked-in syndrome in this country in a year, and we’ve had four in less than three months, in one city. My boss thinks we should be calling the CDC.”

“That would cause a panic.”

“I don’t disagree, but I don’t think it’s an infectious disease causing it. If we can’t find the cause, we’ll have a full investigation on our hands.” She walked away to tend to the victim, and Nick watched her go. 

“I know what the cause is,” came a voice from behind Nick. He turned to find Neal there, standing with his hands in his pockets.

“Oh, you do? Then why haven’t you said anything?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Nick repeated, his tone sarcastic, angry.

Neal pulled a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “Our kind of complicated,” he said and walked away. 

Nick unfolded the paper and on it he saw that Neal had sketched a very detailed picture of what could only be called a gorgon. The face was hideous, with a large, squashed nose, tiny, burning eyes and a forked tongue. Emerging from the hair on its head were several writhing snakes of various sizes, some of which he’d depicted wrapped around the creature’s neck and throat. Nick shuddered at the image – none of the depictions of Wesen in his Aunt’s trailer could surpass it for its lifelike detail. 

And then he realized what this meant, and he looked up with shock at the retreating back of his cousin.

Neal was a Grimm too.

\----

They reconvened in the morning; Peter wanted to get a look into the latest victim’s records, to see if there was anything suspicious, and since no one had any other ideas, they were all seated around the conference room table, pitching in.

“Boy, it’s like no matter where we are, it all comes down to going through financial records with a fine-toothed comb,” Neal snarked, draining his coffee cup. 

“Top two motives for crimes are money and sex,” Hank pointed out. “Some things never change.”

“Seems to me they’re getting sloppy,” Neal said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.

“Well, in New York, these were careful, meticulous crimes. They flew under the radar, you know? Most of the victims seemed to have died of natural causes. But now – two victims in a week? Something’s changed, maybe.”

“Could be,” Hank said, warming to the idea. “You said that in New York, there was an entire network of people involved, right?”

“Yes – we arrested six, but those were just the lieutenants. We suspect the organization dissolved after that due to a lack of leadership,” Peter replied.

“So what if they’re just desperate? They don’t have the same support network as before.”

“Maybe they just need operating capital,” Neal said, half-joking.

“Don’t laugh, that may be it,” Peter said. “Maybe Portland is temporary – they just need to get in, make a few hundred grand, get out, maybe move on to a larger city. The victimology is the same – just the speed of the operation has increased.”

“It may explain why we’re discovering the victims earlier than in New York – less people working the scam means less time and attention paid,” Hank said.

“And it means we have witnesses we can question,” Nick pointed out.

“How?” Peter asked. “They’re paralyzed.”

“But their eyes aren’t. Dr. Patel explained it to me yesterday.”

“I think you’re on to something,” Peter replied. “Why don’t you talk to the doctor - see if we can question the victims?”

“Someone should talk to the librarian’s family – they hadn’t been notified as of last night,” Hank pointed out.

“Why don’t you and I handle that?” Peter suggested. “Neal – you can go with Nick to the hospital.”

Neal looked at Peter sharply, but his partner’s poker face was firmly in place. “Oh. Yes. Sure,” Neal said unenthusiastically. 

Hank, for his part, didn’t hide his delight at forcing the two cousins to interact. “Sounds like a great idea.”

“Grab your hat,” Nick said tersely and left the room.

\----

Neal followed Nick out of the building and to his car, an old Toyota Land Rover parked across the street. Nick had been quiet all morning, much more subdued since Neal had given him the drawing of the Wesen he’d encountered back in New York all those months ago. The image still had the power to make Neal shudder, though it didn’t fill him with the terror it had when he’d dropped the ball and let their suspect slip past him. Seeing her full Wesen visage had been a shock – not only because he so very rarely saw Wesen in New York, but also because he wasn’t going to take any chances that the Greek myths about gorgons might hold a grain of truth. If one glance could turn a person to stone, however unlikely he now thought that to be, at the time he had no data to go on. 

But now, Nick wouldn’t look at him. Correction: Nick wouldn’t look at him if he thought Neal could see him do it, and Neal knew it was because he had never considered that Neal himself had inherited the family curse. And Neal definitely considered being a Grimm to be a curse – a vestige of a time and a heritage he wanted nothing to do with.

Nick unlocked the passenger door for him, and they both got in. “You’re a Grimm,” he said at last, apropos of nothing. Neal didn’t know if it sounded more like a statement or an accusation. 

“Yes, I am. So are you.”

“How did you know?”

“I assumed as much when I heard Marie died. I’m sorry to have heard that, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks for the card.” 

Neal sighed and closed his eyes. He’d always regretted how he left, and didn’t expect Nick to understand, or to forgive him – but it was still hard to be the target of such resentment.

They drove on in silence for several minutes, Nick glancing at him sideways from time to time.

“What?” Neal finally prompted.

“That creature you drew –you ever seen one before this case?”

Neal shook his head, then realized something. “I suppose you’ve inherited all of Marie’s books and whatnot?” 

“Whatnot,” he said. Marie had both inherited and accumulated a treasure trove of Wesen lore, Grimm diaries, weapons, potions and other arcana that she’d left to Nick when she died. All of it was housed in a trailer he kept under an assumed name in a trailer park on the edge of town. 

“How good a look did you get at it?” 

“Too good. It – she – was horrifying, the stuff of nightmares. One look and it was like I lost all reason. Something inside broke, just for a second and I was just – useless. When Peter said earlier that she’d exploited a weakness in our perimeter? I was that weakness. I just – shut down. It’s never happened to me before.”

Nick furrowed his eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of that. Maybe it’s something to do with how she disables her victims – just like Medusa.”

“What, one look and she turns a man to stone? I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I, but something’s paralyzing our victims and we need to find a way to stop it. Until we come up with something better, that’s my going theory.”

They drove for a few more minutes until they pulled up to a tidy Cape Cod on a quiet street near a park. “Is this where Marie’s stuff is?” Neal asked.

Nick smiled. “It’s where the index is.”

The sound of cello music drifted down the walk as they made their way to the front door. Nick rang the bell and a tall, bearded man answered after a few seconds. He wore a bulky, hand-knit cardigan over a green flannel shirt with brown corduroys and nondescript boots. A more non-descript man Neal could not imagine; his immediate impression was, “college professor.” 

“Nick, hey, how surprising to see you,” he said, deadpan, leaning against the door’s frame. Neal couldn’t conceal a smirk – he recognized the manner of a man who may or may not be cooperating with law enforcement voluntarily. The man’s eyes flickered over to Neal and he straightened up, mindful of his manners.

“Monroe, this is my cousin Neal. Neal, my friend Monroe.”

“Oh, hey,” Monroe said, proffering a hand to Neal to shake. “Any family of Nick’s and et cetera. You in town long?” He gestured for them to come in, closed the door and led them to the living room. Neal noticed there were an inordinate amount of clocks in every room – decorating the walls, the shelves. Either Monroe was a collector or an obsessive. Then he noticed the workbench in a small room off the living room, his tiny jeweler’s instruments and other tools, and concluded that Monroe must be a clockmaker.

“Not sure, actually,” Neal answered hesitantly; he wasn’t sure how much of the investigation he ought to share with this person. 

“Neal works for the FBI, and is in town to consult on a case.”

“Really?” Monroe said avidly. “Wow, just – I have so many questions.”

“Well, how about we start with some answers?” Nick said, pulling the drawing Neal had given him earlier out of his pocket. 

Monroe unfolded the paper and gasped. As he caught sight of the image there, his facial features twisted and morphed before Neal's eyes. His ears elongated and pointed, fur sprouted out all over those parts of his body that were exposed, his nose became broader and flatter, his eyes larger, red, menacing, like a werewolf. 

Neal blanched and dropped into a defensive stance. “Holy shit, you’re a Blutbad!” he cried, pointing.

Monroe shook his head and his face changed back to its normal, mild – and _human_ – expression, but he pointed at Neal. “Holy shit, you’re a Grimm?”

Both men looked at Nick for an explanation. Nick held his hands up, fingers spread. “Hold on, hold on, let me explain.” He paused, and both men looked at him with wide eyes and what-the-fuck expressions. “Monroe, Neal is from _that side_ of my family. And Neal, Monroe is a Weider Blutbad.”

“Weider? Really? I’ve never actually met one. How do you manage, you know, the urges?”

“I have a regimen.”

“And you’re allied with Nick? Aren’t you getting grief for that?”

“Like you’ve no idea. So, another Grimm in law enforcement – this run in the family too?”

“Well… I came to the FBI through a circuitous route.”

“Neal is an ex-con and a consultant to the White Collar crime division in New York,” Nick explained.

“White Collar crime? What’s that got to do with homicide?”

Nick pointed at the drawing Monroe still held. “That does. Whoever it is left a trail of bodies in New York and Neal and his partner followed that trail here.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t surprise me, come to think of it. Todesblicke have traditionally been on the grift, and believe me, you don’t want to run up against them.”

“Todesblicke?”

“Back in the day, they used to roam the countryside robbing unsuspecting travelers and merchants. They consider it their lifestyle – like a birthright. What’s this one done?”

“Mostly insurance and inheritance fraud – they befriend a victim and somehow contrive to change their wills or beneficiaries,” Neal explained.

“Beats late night raids and killings, I suppose,” Monroe said. “These are dangerous dudes, you know? People don’t tend to survive an encounter.”

“How do they attack?” Nick asked.

“I’m not sure, but if their PR is to be believed, one glance turns you to stone. I’d have to look into it a bit.”

“Up for some research time in the trailer?” Nick asked.

“You kidding? Of course.” Monroe seemed as excited by this as a kid on Christmas.

Nick tossed him a key. “We’ll meet you there. In the meantime, we’re going to go and question the victims.”

\----

“Dr. Patel,” Nick called out to the neurologist he’d seen too much of over the last few weeks. 

She turned and greeted him with a tired smile. “Detective Burkhardt, good morning.” She eyed Neal with interest.

“This is Neal Caffrey, with the FBI,” he introduced his cousin diffidently. “Doctor, something you said yesterday made me think of something – the victims can move their eyes, yes?”

“When they are lucid, yes, they can voluntarily move their eyes.”

“Can they communicate, then? I mean, do you suppose we could question them?”

“I’m not sure if that’s going to get you far, Detective, but I’d be willing to allow it.” She led them to the entrance to the ICU and over to Tina Corbett’s tiny room, pausing just outside. “Please be patient and friendly – her cardiac system has been compromised severely, and I don’t want her upset. Ask yes or no questions only, and if I say stop, you must stop. Are we clear?”

Nick nodded and Dr. Patel led them into the room. “Miss Corbett, these men are with the police, and they’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened to you. When you answer, I’d like you to blink once for yes, and two times for no. Is that clear?”

_Blink_

“Detective?” Dr. Patel motioned for Nick to come closer.

Nick swallowed and stepped up to Tina Corbett; she was a tiny woman, athletic, with dark, wavy hair and large brown eyes. Nick knew she was in her mid-30’s, but she looked a dozen years younger – and afraid. His heart broke to have to question her. “Hi, Miss Corbett, my name is Nick, and this is Neal. We are looking into the circumstances surrounding your illness, do you understand?”

_Blink_

“Good. Had you been ill prior to this?”

_Blink-Blink_

“Did someone attack you?”

_Blink-Blink_

“Any strange people following you or talking to you?”

_Blink-Blink_

Neal took a step forward and smiled down at her, took her hand in his and began to stroke a fingertip down the back of her hand. “I know this is hard, but there are others who have had the same thing happen. Are you sure that someone didn’t do this to you?”

_Blink_

“Have you seen anything that you couldn’t explain? No matter how strange or out-there, Miss Corbett – anything at all?”

Her eyes flickered away from him toward the doctor for a second.

“Any snakes?” Neal asked quietly.

Miss Corbett’s heart rate spiked suddenly, as well as her blood pressure, and Neal dropped her hand as if he’d hurt her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he said.

Dr. Patel laid a hand on Miss Corbett’s forehead and kept an eye on the readouts on the monitor above her bed. “No, no, it’s OK, Mr. Caffrey. But I’d say the questioning is through for the morning.”

They were closing the door behind them when a red light began flashing above the door to a nearby room and several people rushed over to deal with it, including Dr. Patel.

“Shit!” Nick said, following, but keeping his distance so as not to get in the way of any medical personnel.

“What is it?” Neal asked.

“That’s Mark Henderson’s room – the last victim,” Nick turned in place and then began pacing. Neal watched in horror as the doctor and nurses tried to revive Henderson, but their efforts proved ultimately to be in vain. Nick didn’t wait for Dr. Patel to come out and tell them what was very obvious, so he turned and left, Neal on his heels. “That’s three!” he muttered as he headed for the elevators. “Three!” He jabbed at the down button vehemently.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said mournfully.

“Yeah, well, you should be.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“No, it was something. Tell me what you really think, Nick.”

“I don’t think you want to hear it.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe you don’t want to say it!” Neal was agitated now, goading Nick.

Nick didn’t answer, just breathed heavily through his nostrils.

“This is all my fault,” Neal said. “Isn’t that what you think? If I hadn’t choked in New York, three innocent people in Portland wouldn’t be dead, with one soon to follow.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it. Well, believe me, so do I!”

Nick opened his mouth to reply when his phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “What?!” he barked in answer.

“Hey, dude, no need to tear my head off,” Monroe said at the other end. 

“Monroe, sorry, but our third victim just died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. But listen, I found a few entries on Todesblicke, and I’ve got something useful – you should come take a look. I know how they kill.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

\----

 **Elizabeth.Burke:** Hi hon!  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** Hi hon – gosh I miss you.  
 **Elizabeth.Burke:** Aww, but you’ve only been gone a day.  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** I can’t miss you after a day?  
 **Elizabeth.Burke:** I suppose so, but I’m sure it’s not too trying – you do have Neal with you to distract.  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** I think Neal's got his own distractions. I just met his cousin!  
 **Elizabeth.Burke:** Say that again?!  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** Neal has a cousin here in Portland, and he’s the lead detective on the case we’re working.  
 **Elizabeth.Burke:** I don’t even know what to say to that.  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** Neither do I. He’s so close-lipped about his past, I just assumed there was no one. Apparently, he lived here at some point when he was young.  
 **Elizabeth.Burke:** He’ll tell you all about it in his own time and his own way. You know him.  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** Yes, unfortunately I do. Look, I should go – there’s been another victim and I’m waiting for a court order to come through any minute.  
 **Elizabeth.Burke:** Sure thing. Love you. Love to Neal.  
 **AgentPeterBurke:** Love you too, hon.

“Something interesting come up?” Hank asked; he handed Peter a cup of coffee and sat down across from him.

“Just Skype-ing with my wife,” Peter said sheepishly, closing the lid on his laptop. “You married?”

“A few times,” Hank said ruefully. “I am currently unattached.”

“Ah.”

“How long you been married?”

“Going on fifteen years

“Sounds like a good run,” Hank said with a smile. “Speaking of good runs, have you and Neal been partners long?”

“Almost four years,” Peter said. “They haven’t all been as easy as my marriage.” Hank raised his eyebrows – marriage was far from an easy thing in his experience. “And you?”

“Just over three, since Nick was promoted from anti-crime. I raised him from a pup.”

Peter laughed. “I could say the same thing about Neal.”

“So, does the Bureau make it a habit of pairing agents with ex-cons?”

“They made a special exception with Neal. For a time, he was serving out his sentence under my supervision, as a consultant and Confidential Informant. He’d lend his… special talents to our investigations in exchange for his relative freedom. We closed some pretty major cases together. When his sentence was commuted, he joined the team full time.”

“Still, it’s kind of odd…”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe, but I trust him with my life. Which doesn’t explain him holding back about having family here in Portland!” He finally indulged his need to gossip. “What about that – I got the impression you were as surprised as I was yesterday that Neal and Nick are related.”

“You got that right. Nick’s pretty easy to get along with, but he’s not very open about his past. Until yesterday, an aunt was the only relative I’d heard of, but she died just a few months ago.”

“That’s a shame – I was hoping to meet more of Neal’s family, get some insight into his past. He’s very protective of it for some reason.”

“Must run in the family. We should compare notes sometime.”

“Heh, yeah. Speaking of silence, you heard from Nick yet?”

A concerned expression crossed Hank’s face. “No, which has been a problem lately. The man seems to prefer leaping over looking lately.”

“Another thing that runs in the family,” Peter added ruefully.

Hank’s phone chimed as he got an email. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What is it?”

“Mark Henderson just died. That’s death number three. If we don’t hear from that insurance company soon, I will personally go to their offices and open their files myself.”

A chime on Peter’s phone indicated another email had arrived. “You won’t have to – here’s the information. Tina Corbett bought a $500,000 life insurance policy three months ago. The beneficiary is a Marnie Dickenson.”

“That’s the girlfriend, I think,” Hank pointed out. “She never did show up at the hospital yesterday. I think it’s time we asked her a few questions.”

\----

Nick pulled up outside the trailer and got out of the car almost before the engine had stopped. The tension between he and Neal was a palpable thing, and he needed to put some distance between them, if only for a second. The confrontation with Neal at the hospital had done little to alleviate his frustration with this case. He didn’t blame Neal for letting the Todesblick escape, not really, but his cousin’s admission made him feel uncomfortable to be near him, and knowing that his words had hurt Neal didn’t make it better. He supposed he’d need to hash it out with Neal sooner or later, but for right now, his vote was for “later.”

He opened the door to the trailer, Neal right behind him, and found Monroe sitting at the desk poring over one of the thick volumes of Grimm diaries his aunt had left behind. 

“Oh, you’re here,” Monroe said by way of greeting. 

Nick noted his messed-up hair and pent-up energy, which was Monroe for, “I’ve got something big.” “What did you find?”

“These Todesblicke are bad news, man. I mean, we knew that, but look here.” He pointed at a drawing of a Todesblick attacking a man; in it, the creature loomed over him, tiny lines emanating out of its body toward him. The victim was crouched on the ground, cowering. “Apparently, they emit a natural pheromone that acts almost like a concentrated shot of epinephrine to the body.”

“The fear hormone?” Neal asked.

“Yeah, only instead of eliciting a fight or flight response, it strikes the victim with a paralyzing fear.”

Nick glanced at Neal and their eyes locked for an instant. That would explain Neal’s reaction to “M” when he’d confronted her. He was lucky to have survived at all.

“Is that what causes the muscular paralysis?” Neal asked.

Monroe turned the pages and searched fruitlessly. “It isn’t clear, but it says that Todesblicke bring the _‘trostloses Dasein’_ – literally, a kind of a living death.”

“I’d say that sums up our victims pretty well,” Nick concluded. “Does it say anything about fighting it? Killing it?”

“Just the usual – cut off its head. There are a few more spectacular drawings for that too, but I’ll spare you.”

“So how am I supposed to get close enough to cut off its head if it can paralyze people with fear?”

“Ah, there’s the rub. But it’s a pheromone, so maybe if you don’t breathe it in?”

“Oh, that’s practical.”

Monroe just shrugged. 

\----

Peter sat in the passenger seat of Hank’s car wondering when police detectives started being issued sports cars, and if he could convince the Bureau to follow suit. 

Marnie Dickenson’s address proved to be a sprawling if rundown Victorian-era house on a quiet street, set back on a lot dotted with tall pine trees. Hank pulled up to the curb in front and the two of them got out, strolled up to the front porch and mounted the steps. Hank made a gesture, indicating that Peter could be the one to knock on the door. Peter appreciated the professional courtesy – he’d really grown to like and respect Hank’s no-nonsense attitude over the last day – but indicated he should proceed. “This is your town,” he pointed out and Hank smiled.

The doorbell chimed pleasantly and after a full minute, they could hear footsteps in the foyer. The door opened and a petite woman stood there. “M-Mrs. Timoney,” Hank began, momentarily confused.

“Hello, Detective,” she greeted him. “I – I thought we covered everything the other day at my shop. Did you have some more questions?” 

Peter watched her with interest – she was clearly agitated to see them, and her eyes would not meet Hank’s or his. She glanced behind her, inside the house, nervous. To say she was surprised to see Hank there would be to undersell it – she was shocked as hell. 

And Hank was clearly prepared to use it. “I did,” he said, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and relaxing his stance. “Only when Agent Burke and I came here – oh, have I introduced my new friend, Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI? When we got here, we thought we were going to be paying a visit to a Marnie Dickenson.”

“Oh, really? I’m afraid there’s no one by that name here!” She hurriedly slammed the door in their faces and Peter could see through the curtains on the front door’s windows that she was running back towards the back of the house. 

Suddenly, Peter felt certain in his gut that this was the woman he’d come here to find – “M,” whose gang of murderous thieves had been behind the deaths of dozens of innocent people. One look at Hank told him the detective felt the same. 

As before, Hank gestured for Peter to precede him at the door, but unlike before, Peter took him up on the offer. He drew his handgun and tried the doorknob –it was locked – then backed up and kicked it in. Sections of the door’s frame splintered as he did so, and he advanced into the house, gun at the ready. 

Peter headed right into what looked like a sitting room while Hank headed off to the left. “Clear!” Hank called out to him. Peter found no one in the room and called out “Clear!” himself. He moved into a dining room, saw no one, then found himself in the kitchen. No one was in evidence, so he moved to the window that overlooked the back of the property. 

The house was built at the top of a small hill, so the backyard fell away before him. There was a deck built onto the back of the house, and below it, Peter could see, was a walk-out basement and a patio at ground level. A door was ajar to his right and he soon found himself at the top of a set of stairs that led to the basement. He also recalled that he saw a driveway to the right of the house when they pulled up, so he expected that the garage – as well as a vehicle Marnie could use to escape with – would also be down there. 

“I’m pursuing the suspect to the basement!” he called to Hank as he made his way carefully down the stairs. The basement was a warren of smaller rooms, some of them finished, others filled with shelving and stored goods – new goods, from what Peter could see – TVs, appliances, computer and stereo equipment. Clearly, Marnie had a side business as a fence or something. He ignored it all and headed in the direction where he guessed the garage would be. 

He found the entry door to the garage to be open, as well as the garage’s door to the outside. He glanced to his left and there was no sign of Marnie. He made his way to the exit, thinking she’d rabbited. As he was about to clear the threshold to the backyard, a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned, swinging his gun around.

A roar – a kind of roar, he thought, though it was a bit high-pitched – sounded, followed by a strange hiss. Correction: _hisses._ The sound filled him with a sense of fear so sudden, so base and primal that he found himself rooted to the spot. Peter’s heart sped up, and his vision tunneled as he faced some sort of creature that advanced on him with terrifying deliberation.

“Please… no!” he found himself moaning, dropping his gun and raising his arms to shield his face. 

The creature – there was simply no other word for it, because it was clearly not human – was so hideous, so horrifying, it was like something out of his worst nightmares’ nightmares. It was as tall as he, its skin mottled green and brown; humanoid, with two arms, two legs, a head. But that head – it was repulsive. It had yellow teeth, a broad, flat nose, and tiny eyes that seemed to burn with an inner, yellow light that mesmerized as much as they terrified. Peter found he could not look away, as the creature got closer to him, and closer, and he suddenly realized – with its basic shape and obvious breasts – that it was a woman; some horrible parody of a woman. As she got closer to him, as she stepped from the relative gloom of the garage into the light that streamed from outside, he saw with horror that the mass of wild curls on her head was not just hair at all, it was… snakes. Hundreds of writhing, undulating snakes of various sizes, and all of them were focused on him, spitting and hissing angrily. 

Peter shrank back against the wall, falling to his knees, unable to speak, or even to scream. He had never felt a fear this complete, this debilitating, and all he wanted to do was beg for it to stop. The woman got closer and closer, until she was looming above him. He whimpered, frozen in place, unable to move, to think. She leaned over him, her smile a hideous rictus, and lowered her lips to whisper into his ear. “Is that any way to greet an old friend? Give us a kiss!” She pressed her lips to his cheekbone, and as she did, a pair of the snakes on her head struck, sinking their fangs into his scalp with lightning speed.

Their venom was quick, and Peter could feel it spreading through his bloodstream immediately. His entire head seemed to go numb, followed by his shoulders, his arms, his legs. As he fell to the stained concrete of the garage floor, stunned, he watched her stalk away. Only now she appeared to be human again – a normal woman, small and unassuming – Marnie. 

She slid into the driver’s seat of the Mini Cooper parked there and started it up. Before Peter knew it, she’d gone, and he lay there helpless, feeling all strength leak from the muscles in his body, and he suddenly knew what Neal had encountered all those months ago. He felt nothing but understanding for his partner then, for he’d never before felt such all-encompassing fear in his entire life – not even when Matthew Keller had kidnapped his wife. His wife – his beautiful Elizabeth – she didn’t deserve the sorrow she was about to endure. _Love you, hon,_ he managed a fleeting thought before the blackness took him. _I’m sorry it had to end this way._

\----

“Haven’t seen this in years!” Neal said in awe, removing a Civil War-era Whitworth sniper’s rifle from the weapons cupboard. They were still in Marie’s trailer; Nick sat at the desk with Monroe while Neal took a stroll down memory lane. He lifted the rifle, sighted along it, then broke it apart and inspected the insides – it was well-oiled and cared-for. He made an impressed face and snapped it back together, sighting along it again. 

“You’ve been in here before?” Monroe asked, eyeing Nick with arched eyebrows.

“No, there was no trailer when I lived here – Marie kept all of this in a room above the garage. But I did become intimately familiar with some of it.” He set the rifle aside and removed a newer-looking saber from within the cupboard. He pulled it from its scabbard and launched a few trial thrusts into the air above the bed. He was clearly proficient, his back straight and his aim deadly as he beheaded some of the dried flowers arranged inside what looked like the skull of a bear or large dog; the weapon whistled and whined as he wielded it. Monroe glanced at Nick, who shrugged his shoulders. 

“You seem to have picked up a few things.”

Neal looked self-conscious suddenly and put the sword away. “I, uh, learned a few things when I was a kid.” He sat down on the bed on his hands.

“So, New York,” Nick began, trying to fill the silence. “Must be Wesen Central for a Grimm?”

“Oh no,” Monroe said, as Neal shook his head in the negative as well. Neal smiled. “Wesen generally stay away from New York,” Monroe explained. “Too many freaks.”

Nick blinked. “Too many…”

They were interrupted by the ringing of Neal's cell phone. He glanced at the display and then answered immediately. “Peter, hi –“ he paused, looked at his phone. “Hank?”

Nick didn’t like the sound of that.

“What happened?”

Nick got up and crossed the space between them in two steps, standing above Neal, whose face had gone so pale, he looked like a ghost. “What is it?” Neal’s hand dropped to his lap, the phone still in it; Nick could hear Hank still talking on the other end. _Neal? Neal!_ Nick took the phone from Neal’s nerveless fingers. “Hank, what happened?” he asked.

“It’s Burke – she got him,” was all his partner needed to say before Nick knew exactly what had happened. He reached out his left hand to his cousin’s shoulder, but he was already heading for the door. Nick followed, and by the time he’d caught up, Neal was vomiting in the dirt nearby.

\----

Nick found Hank standing with Dr. Patel in the ICU. “What is it, what happened?”

“I have to see him,” Neal said, moving past them all and heading straight for Peter’s side. 

“He can’t –“ Dr. Patel began, but Nick stayed her with a hand. “They’re partners,” he explained and she nodded sympathetically. “Now what exactly happened?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know. We went to question Tina Corbett’s girlfriend, and it turned out to be the woman from the tarot card shop.”

“Mrs. Timoney?” Nick wished he could register surprise, but nothing shocked him since becoming a Grimm.

“She took off inside the house, and Peter and I split up to pursue. He took the basement level. I heard a car door slam and headed down there to the garage, and I found him. He’s like all the others.”

Nick knew he’d get the rest of the story later, but for now he was more concerned about what this would do to Neal. He turned his head and saw his cousin standing over his partner, Peter’s limp hand clutched in his. He couldn’t see Neal’s face, but his body language – shoulders slumped, the way he held Peter’s hand to his chest – told him how devastated he was. 

As angry with his cousin as Nick had let himself become over the years, he knew he still loved him, and he wouldn’t have wished this on him or anyone.

\----

“Peter!” Neal said, his voice shaky, unreal in his own ears. His whole body felt shaky and unreal. _This isn’t happening._

He picked up Peter’s hand and held it in both of his, leaned forward to peer into his best friend’s face, searching his features for something – some clue. But he remained unconscious for the moment, completely inert, his face expressionless and almost unlined. Neal wondered fleetingly if that’s what he looked like all the time when he slept. Except now he also looked like he was dead, and the thought brought unwanted tears.

He replaced Peter’s hand carefully over the other one on his belly and did a slow-motion recoil, taking a step away from the bed as if the proximity hurt him. And it did – to see his partner like this, to know there was nothing to be done, that he’d die like this and _it was all his fault_ – caused him more pain than anything in his entire life had done, even Kate’s sudden death. The pain was like a living thing in his chest, taking up all of the space his organs should have, and it soon took away his ability to think and to _breathe_ , and he was soon close to hyperventilating.

He turned his back and bent over, rested his hands on his knees to collect himself. This wouldn’t do – Peter was owed more than him freaking out. Neal had to pull it together, had to find the strength to face him when he woke, to find the woman who’d done this and bring her to justice – as he’d failed to do all those months ago. 

But Neal couldn’t dwell on his failure now, because there was a job to do, and a man who needed him to keep his shit together. He went back to Peter’s bedside and took his hand up again and hugged it to his chest with both his hands and held on. Because he knew that’s what he would want if he were lying there, paralyzed and fighting for his life in a hospital bed, and he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

\----

Neal stood at a window in the family waiting room outside the hospital’s ICU ward, staring out at the storm clouds rolling in from the west. Well, it was Portland – there were always storm clouds rolling in from the west. But he found he liked the inevitability, and he liked the gloom that the clouds brought with them because they suited his mood. 

“Neal.”

It was Nick. Neal turned his head slightly, but did not look at his cousin, did not turn around. 

“Have you eaten? You should eat something.”

Neal thought Nick sounded like he was going through the motions, that he was saying the kinds of things anyone would say to someone faced with a tragedy – you have to keep your strength up, he wouldn’t want you to be like this, _it’s not your fault._ Except they both knew that it was.

The call Neal had to make to Elizabeth to tell her to come here was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do in his entire life. His next call was to Moz, to send him over to the Burke house, to make sure she got here in one piece. To tell her – in person – why her husband lay dying in a hospital 3,000 miles from home. So she could say goodbye. So she could get on with hating him forever.

If Neal were the kind of man who did those kinds of things, he’d punch a hole in the wall beside him. 

“Stop.”

That word got his attention. “Stop? Stop what?”

“You know what. It does him no good.”

Neal turned around. 

“It does you no good.”

“I’m no good,” Neal replied flippantly. “Didn’t you hear? Convicted felon, forger, thief – it’s all in my resume.”

“Really? Wow, is that under hobbies? Or special skills?”

Neal snorted. “This doesn’t end like this,” Neal said and turned back to the window.

“What doesn’t?”

“This story, Peter’s story. It doesn’t end like this – he’s supposed to retire upstate, fat and happy with his gorgeous wife and die of boredom on a golf course in forty years. Not – not this. Not because –“

“You need to stop doing this to yourself. It’s not productive.”

But Neal wasn’t hearing him. “I never told him. What I was – I never told him. Or anyone, really. And it would’ve made a difference today, it would have.”

“You don’t know that. And people can’t take it, what we do. You know that, right?”

“Nick, _I_ can’t take what we do. Why do you think I left in the first place?”

Nick didn’t say anything and Neal turned to face him again. Their eyes locked, and Neal saw there a bit of understanding and compassion, but just a bit. Nick took a seat in a chair and Neal sat across from him. “Why _did_ you leave?” Nick finally asked, tentative. 

Neal saw the yearning in Nick’s eyes now, as much as he tried not to show it, the grief over having been abandoned, and it only dredged up the old pain again. But it wasn’t as acute as it always was – something much bigger and more immediate had now replaced it. He sighed. “It’s a very long story.” Nick relaxed back in the chair, as if settling in, and Neal no longer saw a reason not to share this – because at least here was someone who might understand, so he started talking. “I couldn’t do it. At the end of the day, I couldn’t be a Grimm. It was just – against everything I wanted, everything I believed in.”

“In what way?”

Neal sighed. _In every way_. He began: “As you know, my father was the Grimm in my family, as your mother was before Marie, yes?” Nick nodded. “Well, in my family, our heritage was not something I was protected from – it wasn’t a secret. I knew what my father was from the day I could understand it, and the training started when I was about seven. He taught me how to defend myself – shoot a gun, fence, chemistry basics, first aid.”

“Sounds like a lot to lay on a kid.”

“It didn’t feel like it, not at the time, and I was good at it – all of it. But then when I was fourteen, Reapers killed my mother.”

Nick drew a shocked breath. “Neal, I had no idea.”

“Yeah. They wanted to draw my father out, but he wouldn’t be baited. Your Mom, actually – she came to watch out for me while my Dad dealt with it. She was really nice, by the way. She always smelled like-“

“- cookies,” Nick finished for him. “Yeah, I think it was this vanilla perfume she wore or something.”

“She was great to me, really, really great. Anyway, when my father had dealt with the Reapers, he didn’t think it’d be safe for us in our town anymore, so we kind of took to the road, just he and I. We lived in fleabag motels and flophouses, going from town to town looking for Wesen cases. It was like a goddamn episode of _The Incredible Hulk_ or something.”

“I’m sorry.”

Neal rubbed at the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right, remembering the fear and uncertainty of those days. “Thanks. That’s when the teenage hormones kicked in or something and I decided to rebel. I read my Gandhi and my Dr. King and I decided nonviolence was the way for me. I refused to keep up with my training, and my father – he did not like it one bit.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. Which was worse than something, let me tell you. He’d leave me behind for weeks at a time, to fend for myself.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I hustled pool, pulled two-bit cons to make enough money for food and rent. And do you know what the dumbest thing of all was?”

“I can’t guess.” Nick was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes intent on Neal, who tried and failed to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Through it all, I just stayed where he put me. I never ran, I never complained, I never told anyone. Until one day, he just never came back.”

“Neal.”

“Yeah.” Neal got up and began to pace. “To this day, I don’t know what killed my Dad. Not Reapers, though, I know that much – they found him with his head intact. But one day I opened my door to find a pair of cops and a social worker standing there and I knew he was gone. I gave them your mom’s number in New York, but they told me she was dead too. You know, I cried more for your mother than for my father, and that’s no lie.” 

“Uh, thanks?”

Neal laughed, rueful, with a bit of a desperate edge. “That’s how your aunt found me – they found her and the next part you know.”

“You came to live with us. How long before the visions started?” The visions of Wesens’ true faces had been terrifying to Nick when he’d first begun to have them; his Aunt Marie had done nothing over the course of his life to prepare him for it, and though she’d tried in the days leading up to her death to make him understand what he was going through – and what was expected of him – it had been too little too late. 

“Maybe ten weeks?” Neal said, stopping his pacing and resting his hands on the back of the chair he’d just been sitting in. “I was beginning to think it had skipped over me, maybe the old man had another kid somewhere I didn’t know about, but no such luck. 

“The first time I saw a Wesen, I was at school. Turned out my asshole gym teacher was also an asshole Klaustreich. And no, the irony isn’t lost on me.” A cat-like creature, Klaustreichs were known for being abusive and aggressive.

“What did you do?”

“I freaked the hell out, that’s what I did. Marie had to come get me, I wouldn’t let anyone touch me. That’s when I ran away the first time.”

“I remember,” Nick said. “Marie was worried sick. Me too.”

“I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for what I put you both through. But from that time on, I felt like I was trapped in this destiny to be a Grimm, to follow in the old man’s footsteps, killing people because of who or what they were, dying young and violently. And you know, for a while, I even accepted it. I let Marie train me and teach me, until –“

“The night of the white elephant sale at the church,” Nick supplied.

“What?”

The night you left, you and Marie were packing stuff into the car. She said it was all for a white elephant sale at the church.” 

“We didn’t go to church,” Neal pointed out. 

“Yes, well, I realize that now, but I was thirteen and gullible, what can I say.”

Neal smiled and shook his head; the packages he and Marie had been loading into the car had been weapons.

“What happened that night?” 

Neal started his pacing again. “A pack of Blutbaden had come into town – young ones, dangerous. They killed a girl and kidnapped another, and Marie wasn’t going to let another night go by without dealing with it. It was my first case as a Grimm – she said she could use the help, and that it was about time I popped my cherry.” Neal smirked – Marie was never one to mince words. “So we tracked them to an old warehouse down by the river, and we got into it, and…” Neal's voice trailed off at the memory, and he stopped moving.

“You don’t have to say, Neal.”

“Oh, but I do. I’ve told no one this, Nick, no one. Not my closest friend, and not the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

“Neal –“

Neal cut him off and continued his narrative, his voice sounding strange and hollow in his ears. “The first and last person I killed was a Blutbad named James Alan Klein from Vancouver, Washington, age fifteen.”

“Oh my God.”

“He would have killed me, of that I have no doubt. In fact, he tried to. I still have the scars on my ribs from his claws, if you look close enough.”

“Neal, stop.”

But Neal couldn’t; once the words had started, there was no halting them. “He was so young, so young. He looked a little like you, actually, when he was lying there dead, hair hanging across his forehead – sweaty, like you when you had the flu that one time and I stayed home from school to take care of you. He –“

“Neal!” Nick said sharply, standing. “You had no choice.”

Neal smiled sadly, grateful for Nick’s words – an absolution of sorts. He began to pace again. “So I made another choice. I left. I left it all behind. I swore to myself there would be no more James Alan Kleins, not for me. 

“And I knew Marie wouldn’t understand. Running was the only thing I could think to do.”

He looked at Nick then, tentatively, and was relieved to see the understanding in his eyes, the shared sorrow, the compassion. He didn’t know if he deserved it from his cousin, but he was grateful for it.

“What happened next?” Nick asked.

“I hitchhiked across the country, wound up in New York after a while. Found a calling – that was not entirely legal – and people that cared for me, a woman to love. It was a hard life, but I learned how to be happy.”

“And then you landed in prison.”

Neal smiled. “Believe me, that’s a story best told over drinks, Cuz.”

“And prison?”

“Was not what you’d expect. Turns out, being a Grimm in prison has its perks.”

“You don’t say.”

“When you show up on day one and guys twice your size who are also Jagerbars or Blutbaden practically piss themselves to get out of your way, you wind up with a reputation. No one messed with me, not even once.”

“Well, there you go, at least it was good for _something_.” Nick paused, his eyes softening. “I’m sorry I’ve given you such a hard time, Neal. When you left, it was hard on me, like losing my family all over again, but I see now you had your reasons. If only it had gone differently – you were just a kid, and that’s nothing I’d wish on anyone.”

“Thanks, Nick, that means a lot, it really does.”

They stood looking at each other, and Neal felt marginally better – at least he’d fixed one thing in his screwed-up life.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Patel, who’d come to tell them that Peter had regained consciousness.

\----

Neal stood beside Peter’s bed again, gripping the rails on the side of the bed like they were saving him from drowning. Peter’s eyelids fluttered, and he leaned in closer. “Peter.”

Peter’s eyes found Neal’s and the panicked edge they had when he opened them suddenly eased. Neal rested a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Hey, Butch,” he said softly. Peter blinked back the tears that suddenly appeared and Neal closed his eyes for a second. “El’s on the last plane out of Newark. She’ll be here in a few hours, OK?”

Peter stared at him, but Neal knew him well enough to read the expression in his eyes. _OK_ Suddenly, Peter was blinking a lot more rapidly than before, and it didn’t take Neal long to realize he was repeating a pattern.

 _N-E-A-L_ Peter blinked in Morse code.

Neal tightened his grip on Peter’s shoulder, encouraging him. “What is it, Peter? Tell me.”

 _M-O-N-S-T-E-R_ Peter slowly managed.

Neal felt his stomach clench – Peter had clearly gotten a look at the Todesblick in her true form. “I know, buddy, I know what you saw.”

_S-N-A-K-E_

“You saw the snakes on her head?”

_B-I-T-M-E_

“They bit you? The snakes bit you?”

 _Yes,_ Peter’s eyes told him. 

“That’s something, buddy, it is. Listen, I don’t want to leave you alone, and I know you have a lot of questions – and I have a lot of explaining to do – but I… I need to go. Trust me when I say I need to go.”

 _Yes._

Neal hurried out of the room, feeling hope flutter just a little in his chest. Just a little. 

“Hey, Cuz, I’ve got to talk to you,” Neal said urgently when he found Nick outside; the detective was talking with his partner in the waiting room. He took Nick by the elbow and led him to a private corner. “I know how the Todeslblick attacks. But more importantly, it might mean there’s a cure.”

\----

“What is this place again?” Neal asked, nervous energy making him drum his fingers on his knee.

“It’s a spice and tea shop. The proprietor is a friend. She’s also a Fuchsbau and an alchemist.”

“She have Mickey Mouse in there making brooms dance too?” Neal asked wryly and Nick gave him a look.

“She’s helped me before – and saved Hank’s life, so I don’t doubt her skills. And we’re going to need all the help we can get. If anyone can figure out if a Todesblick antivenin is possible, it’ll be her.”

\----

“It’s impossible!”

“Monroe, you’re only saying that because no one’s ever done it before,” Rosalee chided. “Hand me that scroll over there, will you?”

Neal stepped forward to watch as Rosalee, a pretty woman about his age, with light brown hair and large, expressive eyes, lay a hand on Monroe’s upper arm and squeezed. The Blutbad seemed to melt to her will, sheepishly handing her the parchment and looking at her with an adoration that was clear to everyone, it seemed, but Rosalee. 

She unrolled the parchment and pointed out a few things to them. “This outlines how to make the serum. We’ll need the snakes, of course, for their venom, a rabbit or a dog to produce antibodies.”

“A sheep will probably be better,” Neal pointed out. “How about a Blutbad?” he asked, pointing at Monroe.

“Funny. But, guys?” Monroe said.

Rosalee continued, ignoring him. “And some basic lab equipment, though I’m not quite set up for it…it’s not like I have a centrifuge lying around.”

“This’ll buy whatever you need,” Neal said, immediately plunking down his American Express card. 

“How long will it take to produce the serum, once you’ve got everything?”

“24 hours?”

“Guys?”

“Now we just need to find the Todesblick,” Nick said thoughtfully. “There’s a city-wide BOLO, so she won’t get too far.”

“GUYS!!” Monroe shouted, exasperated. All eyes were suddenly on him. “Does no one see the flaw in this plan?”

“Well, I did say we still have to catch her,” Nick pointed out.

“There’s the little detail of harvesting the snakes from her head. How’re ya going to get close enough without being affected by her fear-omones? _And even then_ …what? You cut off her head, she reverts to human form – no snakes. You don’t cut off her head – you’re a gibbering mess at best, lying on a slab in the morgue in a week at worst. It’s the world’s worst Catch-22.”

Neal flinched, his lips pressed together in a tight line. When he spoke, he could barely control the waver in his voice. “There has to be a way. Peter will die if we do nothing!”

They stood in frustrated silence for several minutes until Nick’s phone chimed – he’d received a text message. “Looks like highway patrol have a line on our suspect,” he said urgently, dialing the number for PPD’s central dispatcher. “At least one of our problems just solved itself.” He headed to the door, Neal following close behind, speaking to the dispatcher while he walked. He put down the phone before he went through the door. “Hey, can you guys look into the snake issue?” Nick asked and then left.

“What’s he think, that we’d just sit here pulling our puds?” Monroe muttered to the room in general.

“Well, _you’d_ be pulling your pud…” Neal heard Rosalee snark before the door closed behind him.

\----

The highway patrol had spotted Marnie Dickenson/Jane Timoney’s car and followed her to a rest stop off the Interstate at the edge of town, but she’d ducked inside the sprawling one-story building before they could apprehend her. A perimeter had been set up, and thankfully the place had been evacuated by the time Neal and Nick arrived. 

“What have we got?” Nick said to one of the officers on the scene. Luckily, it appeared that no commanding officers had yet arrived, so he could try to work this so that none of these men would wind up getting hurt by the Todesblick.

“Suspect is inside the building, and we’ve got all exits covered, sir,” reported a young officer whose nametag said his name was Reed. “We saw some movement a few minutes ago, so we know she’s still in there.”

“Good. Great job.”

“Can I ask what the charge is here, sir? Dispatch said not to approach, so we’ve kept our distance, but –“

Neal answered, “She’s armed with a biological weapon that is extremely dangerous.”

The officer looked at Neal wide-eyed. “Agent Caffrey here has had dealings with the suspect before,” Nick added. “He and I are going to go inside. Keep a tight perimeter until you hear from me, do you understand Officer Reed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, I’m not technically an Agent,” Neal pointed out as they made their way back to the car and the large leather duffel in the back that was loaded with weapons from Marie’s trailer.

Nick shrugged.

“I think the wrong cousin became a conman.”

Nick smirked as he slung the duffel over his shoulder and they made their way into the building. He slung the bag up on top of the Information Booth desk, and unzipped it. Rooting through it, he removed a sword and a hand mace that dangled around dangerously.

Neal ducked. “Whoa, you know how to use that thing?”

“What’s to know? Swing, smash, repeat.”

Neal shook his head and went to have a peek into the bag for himself. Inside he found the rapier he’d been fooling around with the day before – which he’d also trained on years ago with Marie – and a handheld battle axe that may or may not actually have belonged in a museum. He twirled it in his left hand, testing its weight, staring at its gleaming edge pensively. He never wanted to be in this position again – never wanted to kill another being. And now – 

“You know, if there were another way, Neal, I’d do this myself,” Nick said, interrupting his thoughts.

Neal looked up at Nick and nodded gratefully. “I know. But this is a fight and a destiny I’ve avoided for too long. This is what I am, and there’s no running from it. We Grimms are meant to defend against the evil that ordinary men can’t see. It was never so clear to me before. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“It won’t be.”

Neal was both touched by Nick’s quiet resolve and confidence, and humbled by it. Here was his “baby cousin,” a full-fledged Grimm, taking their shared destiny in hand and excelling. He couldn’t be more proud.

They turned and headed into the sprawling building, moving together and covering for each other. “Marnie Dickenson,” Nick called out. “This is the Portland Police. Come quietly and nothing will happen to you.” 

They were in a main hall, the men’s room to their right, ladies’ to the left. Neal glanced nervously at the doors to each – the close quarters within those rooms would not be ideal for hand-to-hand combat. A crash inside a casual dining restaurant at the far end of the space got their attention, and they headed towards its entrance. 

“Is that the Grimm I saw in New York?” a female voice said once they were inside. It was low, sibilant, and seemed to surround them. They couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“The feeling may be mutual,” Neal said.

“I got to your partner instead,” she taunted. 

Neal felt his back stiffen with anger, which he struggled to tamp down – he wouldn’t let her get to him that easily. “He’s not dead yet.”

“A technicality – he will be soon enough, and at least I’ll have my revenge.”

Something was suddenly clear to Neal. “The man who died in the raid in New York –“

“He was my husband!”

“Wish I could say I was sorry, but he killed a lot of people. You’ve killed a lot of people.”

“And I’ll kill you too, Grimm.”

“You’ll have to kill two of us,” Nick responded, tightening his grip on the mace. “There can only be one way this ends unless you come quietly right now.”

“That would be impossible,” she said. The voice seemed closer now, causing the two Grimms to adopt a defensive stance, back-to-back, weapons ready.

And then she attacked.

She came at them with the sound of hundreds of snakes hissing and spitting, already morphed into her Wesen form. Nick was momentarily distracted by her shocking ugliness, giving her an opportunity to strike at him, which she did. She held what looked like a short cutlass, curved and barbed at the end, which she swiped at him once, twice, three times with lightning-quickness. He managed to jump back to avoid the worst of it, but he could feel the blade slide across the skin of his chest on her last pass, and he cried out, more in surprise than pain. He blindly swung the mace at her head and missed by a mile. 

Neal, meanwhile, had spun to protect his cousin, and was harrying her from the right. He thrust his sword at her head, her chest, her midsection, all of his moves sure and accurate, but she moved so fast it was like a blur. She slashed her weapon at him and he caught it, the blades sliding together until they met at the hilt. She was strong – as strong as he was, and just as determined. When the snakes on her head began to snap at him, he pushed her away with both arms, crying out in disgust.

Nick took this opportunity to attack with his own sword. He’d never trained, not like Neal, but what he lacked in finesse he more than made up for in sheer force. His attack had her backing away, one step after another, until she crashed into the checkout counter. She spun away from Nick, turned to thrust her blade at his belly, but he was ready for her and deflected her attack easily. She made a frustrated sound in her throat, all the snakes on her head hissing indignantly, and she renewed her attack. This time, her fury seemed to be winning out. Nick retreated from her, his legs became tangled up with the chairs of a nearby table, and he fell over onto his back with a crash.

Suddenly she was on him, and he could actually see the fear-inducing pheromones she exuded as they emanated from her mouth and nose, a sickly yellowish gas. He thought too late he ought to hold his breath, but soon all thought was banished as he was hit with a paralyzing fear that turned his limbs to water, rendering him utterly helpless. He stared up at her as she positioned herself over him, holding her blade high, her snakes hissing triumphantly as she prepared to deliver a death blow.

“Nick!” Neal screamed and launched himself at the Todesblick. His sword whined as it came down at the back of her head. Yet again, his blow was aimed with deadly accuracy, and this time, with her attention on Nick, that aim proved to be true. The blade of his sword sliced along the back of her skull, neatly severing a large patch of snakes and hair from her scalp. It landed on the floor with an audible _splat_ , the snakes hissing angrily, impotently up at him.

The Todesblick screamed, clutching at her head in agony as blood streamed down her neck and back. She raised her arms over her head again as she turned to attack Neal, her eyes literally burning bright yellow as the full force of her fury was turned on him.

Neal wasted no time – he spun on the ball of his foot, putting all of the momentum that he could into the force of his strike, focusing all of his own anger and fury through the deadly axe he held in his left hand. He connected – could feel the jolt of the hit in his forearm, almost numbing in its intensity. Her head was severed completely from her shoulders, arcing up and spinning once, twice, a sickening gout of blood flowing out of it like a comet’s tail. It rolled about ten feet away and when it stopped, its face was thankfully hidden by the hostess stand. Her body fell with a dull thud, blood gushing from her neck. Neal jumped out of the way, hoping to at least save his shoes from the carnage of the day.

He turned, panting heavily, to where Nick lay on the floor, staring at him, open-mouthed. “You OK?” Neal asked, alarmed at the way the blood on Nick’s shirt plastered it to his skin.

Nick struggled to his elbows, all fear disappearing with the death of the creature. “I’m good. Little help?” Neal helped him to his feet and they both went over to the Todesblick’s body. Nearby, Neal saw that the large patch of scalp with the snakes attached had remained intact; the snakes, while subdued for the moment, were still very much alive. Not stopping to wonder what that meant, Nick rushed off to find something to pick up the snakes with so that they could safely get them back to Rosalee and Monroe.

As they headed, exhausted, back out to the car, Nick’s phone chimed and he pulled it from his pocket. He smirked and shoved it back, then opened the back of the Toyota to stow the weapons once more.

“What was it?” Neal asked.

“Text from Monroe. He says to scalp the Todesblick to remove the snakes.”

“Huh. I guess great minds and whatnot,” Neal said.

“Whatnot.”

\----

Neal sat in the waiting room at the hospital’s ICU, his right foot propped on his left knee, hands folded in his lap. He looked like he was watching the television that was mounted up on the wall, except that he was totally asleep. The Todesblick’s snake venom had, fortunately, been enough to make the antivenin needed to treat both Peter and Tina Corbett, and it had been administered the night before. 

The sensation of someone else sitting down in the seat beside him woke him. “Mon frère,” Moz greeted him.

“Never thought I’d see you in a hospital voluntarily,” Neal observed.

Moz shrugged. “I figured Elizabeth could use the moral support. Though it seems my services are no longer necessary.”

“Peter’s responding well to the treatment,” Neal confirmed. “The doctor says he should fully recover. He’ll be fit for duty in a couple weeks.”

“That’s good news. Guess I’ll be on the first flight back to New York. You want to come with?”

Neal ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “No, I think I’ll stick around for another few days. Try to get to know my cousin a bit more.”

“Oh yeah, the long-lost cousin. How did I not know about that? Not to mention some of your other hidden talents?” His eyes were fixed on Neal's, who could not look away.

“I’ve known you were a Reinigen since the day I met you, Moz. It means nothing to me.”

Moz’s round face quickly morphed into that of a rat-like creature, his glasses tipping forward precipitously, then he changed back just as quickly. “That’s some poker face you’ve got, then. You never even flinch.”

“I would never have hurt you, or anyone. I’m not like other Grimms. Why do you think I went to New York?”

Moz held his hands up. “Fine,” he said, though it clearly was not. Neal suspected he’d pay for it down the line, in the form of a favor he would not want to grant. “Anyway, I guess we’re even on the keeping secrets score. Any other superpowers I ought to know about? Can you fly?”

Neal smirked. “Not as far as you know.”

They were joined by Elizabeth, who emerged from the ICU ward and came to sit beside Neal. She looked so very tired, but there was a relief around her eyes now that Neal was happy to have been able to facilitate. “He wants to see you,” she murmured.

“He can talk?”

“A little. Mostly sounds, but it’s getting easier.” Neal rose to go in – ICU visiting hours were limited and he only had another 20 minutes or so. Elizabeth caught his hand before he could move away, her blue eyes shining. 

“I don’t know what you did, or how, but I know why, and I will always be grateful.”

He smiled down at her and headed for the door.

\----

Peter lay on his back in his hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. Then he slowly turned his head and stared at the heart monitor. Then the hinges on the door, and the rolling table pushed up against the far wall. To be able to move – anything – was like a minor miracle. The door to his room opened and closed, and he turned his head to track it. “Nnnhh…” he began.

“Don’t push it, buddy,” Neal said with a smile as wide as the ocean. He picked up Peter’s hand and held it in both of his.

“Neeeealll,” Peter said at last.

“It is good to see you move. Although to be honest, maybe this is a good thing for me. I mean, if ever there was an opportunity for me to re-enter a life of crime, it’ll be when you can’t actually chase me…”

Peter hoped the smile on his face didn’t look too much like a grimace. 

Neal sat on the edge of his bed, and Peter noticed some dampness around his eyes. “I, um, so…” He glanced up at the ceiling, then down at Peter. “Guess I owe you an explanation.”

It took several seconds, but Peter raised his eyebrows. _You think?_ he’d have said if he could.

“When you’re better, you’ll get the whole story, I promise. For right now, just know that the monster you saw, it’s called a Todesblick, and it’s real, and deadly, and if I ever thought in a million years that not sharing this secret of mine would hurt you, I’d have told you a long ago, Peter.”

Peter tried to squeeze Neal’s hand, but all he managed was to move his thumb. He pressed it into Neal’s palm. _I understand, buddy._

“Thanks. I’m not sure I deserve it, but thanks. I am… I am one of a dwindling line of…. huh, I guess the best term for it is ‘defenders of the innocent.’ It’s been so long since I thought about that – about who I am, what I am – and this case has just dredged up so many memories.” He sighed. “But they’re not necessarily all bad. I’ve realized that running from it has been a mistake, that there’s good to be done, and it’s my responsibility – my duty – and it’s important. I can help people, and maybe even save some, and that’s been the point all along. And denying it has been, well, selfish.”

“Dddd, b-b-,” Peter said. _Don’t beat yourself up about it._

Again, Neal seemed to understand him. “You’re kind to let me off the hook. And I promise not to wallow. Much. Now, I hear you’re supposed to be just fine in a few days. When you get out of here, I’ll take you on a tour of the city. There’s a great arts scene, trust me.” 

He stood again, to go – visiting hours were nearly over – but he was still holding Peter’s hand. Peter tried again to grasp onto Neal, and this time managed a weak squeeze. “Thaaanks.”

“You’re welcome. Also, it’s kind of my job now. You should get some rest. I’ll see you later, OK?”

Peter watched him go, a little worried for him – there was still a lot he didn’t understand, but he trusted that Neal would explain. And he knew now without a doubt that any doubts that Neal couldn’t perform under pressure, or use deadly force when necessary, were unfounded and unfair. Neal clearly had deep-seated reasons for his convictions, reasons that were hard-won, and something about this case made him re-evaluate that. Peter hoped, though, that it hadn’t hurt him.

He figured they would have plenty of time to talk about it later… when he could talk.

\----

Neal and Elizabeth reluctantly let Moz talk them into leaving the hospital to get some lunch – the next scheduled set of visiting hours for the ICU wouldn’t be until late afternoon. On their way to the rental car, Neal spotted Nick leaning up against his SUV, hands in his pockets and watching him. He excused himself and went over to speak to his cousin.

“Hey,” Nick greeted him with a genuine smile. “Everything OK with Peter?”

“Yeah, he’s talking and everything. Well, sort of talking.”

“That’s great. This was a tough one. It’s a good thing you were here.”

“I’m sure you would have managed. I’m thinking Monroe’s hiding a total badass under all of those cardigans.”

Nick laughed. “You’ve no idea. So, you going to be OK?”

Neal turned his head and looked at his cousin – how typical that he’d be so caring, and how unexpected to feel it aimed at him. He realized how much he’d missed him over the years, and wished he could make up for it. “I will be.”

“Good. I think I was a little hard on you, and it was unfair. I wanted to apologize.”

“I don’t know that you need to, but thanks.”

“And I was wondering if you could teach me that spinning, back-handed move with the axe. That was pretty cool.”

“Oh, well, it’s all in the balance. We’ll have to hit a gym and I’ll run you through it. Marie was a good teacher.”

Nick looked away and a strange look crossed over his face that Neal couldn’t read. Was it grief over Marie’s death, or regret that she’d never taught him like she’d taught Neal? “I miss her,” he said, giving Neal his answer.

“I know you do. Me too. She was kind to me, and I always appreciated it.”

“I’m sorry you had such a rough time, Neal. I wish I’d known at the time.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything, Nick. I still would have run.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn't have spent all this time angry with you about it. You might have had someplace to go, maybe your life would have turned out – I don’t know – different, or better.”

Neal smiled. “My life turned out just fine, in the end. It led me back here, and I’m happy it did.”

Nick looked at him strangely and then stepped away from the car. He pulled a folded up piece of paper from his jacket and handed it to Neal. It was the drawing Neal had made of Nick before he’d run away. “You kept this all this time?”

Nick ducked his head sheepishly. “It was my only link to you. I just remembered I had it last night.”

Neal ran his fingertips over the pencil strokes of the drawing, remembering the boy he was and the journey he’d taken to get here, and wished it had gone differently. “I’ll have to make you another, updated one soon.”

“You can – when you come to meet my girl, Juliette. She can’t believe I never mentioned you before.”

Neal smiled, happy to know that Nick had someone to share his life with. “I’d love to meet her.”

“Good, because if I don’t bring you all home for dinner tonight, she might kill me.”

“I’m sure Elizabeth would like that, and Moz. Thank you. And you both should come to see me in New York soon – you know, if you ever need a Wesen-free vacation. It’s like a Grimm’s paradise.”

Nick laughed again. “I may just take you up on that.”

\----

Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author’s Notes:**  
>  * A million thanks and then a million more to my wonderful friend, Elrhiarhodan, not only for the beautiful graphics, but for helping me hash out certain plot details.
> 
> * Additional thanks to my betas, jrosemary and dmk0064, for advice, general hand-holding and actually reading this thing more than once. Yikes – I owe you guys big time.
> 
> * Title is a quote from Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”:  
>  _My fate cries out,_  
>  And makes each petty artery in this body  
> As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
> 
> * “Todesblick” is German for death glare. Special thanks to my pal tj_teejay for all things Deutsche.
> 
> * Making antivenin actually takes weeks, but we can hand-wave that little detail, can’t we? I mean, we’re friends, yes?


End file.
